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When it rains, Merlin likes to curl up in the hidden parts of the castle. The window seat in Arthur’s chambers is always a good spot. He can watch the water sliding down the glass, look down below and see the people scurrying across the courtyard.
Merlin likes the rain. It’s peaceful. Soothing.
“It’s a pain in the arse,” Gwaine had corrected him that morning, drenched and glowering at Merlin in sodden armour. “Any chance of the sun reappearing before we’re all drowned?”
It’s been raining for three days straight. Merlin has nothing to do with it. Honest.
Merlin had ignored Gwaine and gone to sulk in Arthur’s chambers instead. Arthur’s chambers, which distinctly lacked anyone named Arthur. It’s just Merlin, and the rain outside, and his wet boots, which he’d thrown towards the fire in disgust.
He’d meant to just dry them out, but he’d over thrown and almost set them alight. Luckily he’d fished them out before they’d charred too much. Charcoal between his toes would have been the icing on three particularly shitty days.
So now he’s sat by the window, bare foot and miserable, and just. Like. Missing Arthur. A lot. Possibly enough to cause a three day monsoon.
Arthur hasn’t even gone anywhere interesting. He’s on a diplomatic visit to one of the Lords of Gedreth, who is strategically important but dull as fuck.
Normally, Merlin would have gone with his King to die a slow death of boredom. There are a surprising number of similarities between his new job and his old one; turns out, being a court sorcerer means he still spends most of his day at Arthur’s side.
And most of his nights too, come to think of it, though that’s not a job requirement. That’s something Merlin’s more than happy to do on his own time.
But there’s been a fever spreading through the lower town. Gaius couldn’t spare him, so Merlin had stayed behind to help. Thankfully after three days of snot, sweat and a pinch of magic, most of the patients have recovered. Merlin will check on the rest tomorrow. He’s hoping the more town people who see him using his magic for good, the further the word will spread that he’s not planning to turn anyone into a frog.
A sound at the door distracts Merlin from his sulk. It’s Thomas, one of the serving boys, and he knocks twice before peering around the door. “Um. Good afternoon, my Lord.”
Merlin smiles. “It’s fine, you can just call me Merlin.”
“I, uh, definitely can’t call you that, Sire,” Thomas says in a strangled voice.
“I don’t mind,” Merlin shrugs. “I’ve never thought much of titles. You should hear what I call Arthur.”
Thomas can’t quite hide his alarm at Merlin’s casual disregard for the monarchy, but he recovers well. “Sir Gwaine asked me to deliver a message to you.”
Merlin has a choice response to that, but he takes pity on poor Thomas. “What is the message?”
Thomas clears his throat. “Sir Gwaine wanted me to inform you that the King won’t be back for another week.”
Merlin feels his heart sink. It must show on his face, because Thomas shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Sire. I am sure the King will return soon.”
“So am I,” Merlin sighs. He hasn’t been able to eat much with Arthur away, and he gestures to the full plates still on the table. “Do you mind taking those to the kitchen for me?”
What he means is: take those to the kitchen and share them with the other servants. Thomas catches his meaning and beams at Merlin as he gathers the food into his arm. “Thank you, Mer - Sire. Thank you, Sire.”
Thomas hurries out of the room, still beaming, and it lifts Merlin’s spirits a little. Still, Merlin never feels that stupid coin metaphor as keenly as when Arthur is away. Like half of him is aching, waiting for the other part of his soul to return.
After Thomas’ departure, Merlin decides to spend another productive hour feeling sorry for himself and staring dramatically out of the window. He’s managed a good thirty minutes of brooding, when the door creaks open.
Merlin doesn’t bother lifting his head. “I don’t want to hear anything else from Sir Gwaine.”
“Understandable,” someone snorts. “But a little random, even for you.”
Merlin’s head snaps up, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Arthur!”
“Merlin,” Arthur returns dryly, arching an eyebrow.
“What are you doing here?” Merlin blurts.
Arthur stares at him. “Merlin, I live here. I am - I am literally the King of this castle?”
The last part comes out a little questioningly, and Arthur is now looking at Merlin like he suspects Merlin has a concussion. Merlin doesn’t care for any of that, he’s too busy drinking the sight of Arthur in.
Arthur is ruffled from his journey; his hair is damp and tousled across his forehead, the rain turning his blonde hair tawny. His cheeks are flushed pink from the ride, eyes wide and blue and achingly fond as they gaze into Merlin’s.
He’s in full armour, silver and crimson and Pendragon gold, and Merlin is helpless in the face of the sheer affection he feels for this man.
“You’re not meant to be back for another week,” Merlin stammers.
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s news to me, but I can see where I’m not wanted - “
“Shut up,” Merlin snaps.
“I suppose it was too much to expect a civil welcome,” Arthur mutters. “I'll stay away for longer shall I - ah!”
Merlin crashes into him, throwing his arms around Arthur's neck and holding on for dear life as Arthur staggers backwards at the unexpected weight.
Arthur doesn't let him fall, would never, just wraps strong arms around Merlin’s waist and steadys them both.
He laughs as Merlin burrows his face in Arthur's chest. He drops a kiss to the crown of Merlin's hair, one hand coming up to rub soothingly up his spine.
Merlin pulls back a little, but only so he can lean up and kiss him. They are a little clumsy with it, eager and desperate, laughing into other mouths and Merlin's chest feels warm and full.
When they part, they stumble over to the bed. They sit on the edge together, hands tangled and shoulders pressed together.
“So,” Arthur begins in a teasing voice. “Did you miss me?”
“No,” Merlin lies. “I have no idea what would give you that impression.”
Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Three days of rain, Merlin?”
Merlin shrugs. “Nature truly is a mystery.”
Arthur snorts, shoving Merlin's shoulder gently with his own. “I'm sure. And the sun just happened to appear upon my return.”
Yes, Merlin thinks. Yes, that's exactly how it feels to me. But he can't quite say that, hasn't quite had the courage yet to tell Arthur in words how they share the same soul, how he would die for him and die without him and how this is the happiest Merlin's ever been.
Merlin can't say all that yet, so instead he says, “Are you going to take your armour off before we go bed, you brute?”
“Presumptuous that you think I'm coming to bed at all,” Arthur says haughtily. And then promptly ruins the effect by shedding himself of armour in record speed and tackling Merlin on the mattress.
They tussle for a little bit, childish and boisterous, as if this isn’t just an excuse to run their hands over the other.
Merlin flops back against the pillow after a while, panting slightly. He's about to lean over and start the bedding properly, when Arthur says abruptly, “Wait, why did you think I wouldn't be back for another week?”
Merlin blinks at him. “Because you shouldn't be back for another week?”
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says and ducks the pillow Merlin hurls at him. “I sent word I was back in the castle as soon as I arrived.”
“No, the message I got was you would be another week!”
“No, I told Gwaine -”
“Wait.” Merlin stares at him. “What did you tell Gwaine and when?”
“Gwaine was in the courtyard when I arrived,” Arthur says slowly. “I had to debrief with Leon, so I asked him to send a servant to tell you I was back and would be with you shortly. And I - um, sweetheart, you've set the table on fire.”
Merlin blinks, and sees that with the swelling of fury in his chest, his grip on his magic has loosened and the table in the middle of the room is indeed on fire.
He waves a hand and the fire immediately dies, the table intact. “Oops, sorry."
“No matter,” Arthur says magnanimously. “So I take it that Gwaine has played a little joke at our expense and told the servant something completely different.”
“I'm going to kill him.”
“Well, yeah, but later,” and then Arthur rolls him over and there is no more talking for some time.
-
When Leon arrives at the training field the next morning, Arthur is already there. He's decked in armour and weilding a nasty looking mace with the aura of a man preparing for a brutal and relentless war.
Merlin waves at Leon from where he's sat in the stands. Merlin, for his part, is dressed in a coat that is blatantly Arthur's as its too large on his lithe frame, and an extremely satisfied smirk.
Leon clears his throat. “Arthur, what are you doing?”
Arthur flips up his visor and says cheerfully, “Preparing to beat the shit out of Gwaine.”
One of their newer knights, Sir Donal, happens to walk past at the exact moment and does a double take.
Arthur smiles at Sir Donal beautifically. Sir Donal trips over his cloak. From his perch, Merlin's eye twitches. It is barely nine in the morning and Leon is seriously considering writing the whole day off and going back to bed.
“Well,” Leon sighs, and looks up to the sky where the sun is shining high and bright. “At least it's good weather for it.”